Yesterday's Gold
by Andi Horton
Summary: Spirited away from the station platform on their way to school, the Pevensies find themselves on a wooded island with a ruined castle. As night falls Susan ventures into the courtyard, where she finds a forgotten treasure and remembers all that once was.


Yesterday's Gold

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I don't suppose I can explain to you what it is like to be taken from your home into a wild new land, and I certainly don't imagine I can make you see what it like for you and your sister and brothers to be made Kings and Queens of that land, and to rule over it for several years before, quite rudely, you find yourself plunked back into your old world, where you are not Kings or Queens but very plain and ordinary children once more, quite the same age as you were when first you left and just like all the other children. You must simply take my word for it that it is far from pleasant, and takes a great deal of getting used to.

Imagine, then, what it must be like to be sitting on a train platform with your sister and brothers about a year after first you returned, and suddenly there comes a dreadful feeling all around, like a pinch, a poke and a pull all at once, so that you tingle all over and wish very much it would stop even though at the same time you feel a very nice flutter in your tummy, because somehow it's all terribly, wonderfully familiar to you. Imagine, too, what it would be like to catch hold of your brother's hand, and to snatch up your little sister's (that part isn't so pleasant, because she didn't wash her hands after breakfast so they are quite sticky still with marmalade) and to find you are swirling, spinning, sliding through nothing as the world falls away around you, to be replaced all at once by a world that is very clearly not the one you left behind. Instead of a poky little platform at a country station, there are woods and ocean all around you, and everything is as wild and mysterious as things can possibly be. I don't suppose you can even begin to understand what it would feel like, but I'll ask you to try very hard anyway, because it will help you understand what happens next.

This, you see, is what happened to Susan Pevensie, who was once a Queen in Narnia, then a very ordinary little girl in our world, and now, suddenly . . . nowhere at all, and her family there –nowhere– with her. It was all most dreadfully unsettling to each of the four Pevensies, though to their credit they managed to not lose their heads about it all; that's probably the nicest thing about falling into an adventure with other people. Somehow you don't panic quite as much as you might if you were alone.

I won't explain in much detail everything that the children did on finding themselves in the strange place; that has already been described quite beautifully in another book, and if you read _Prince Caspian_ you will find it all out for yourself. Suffice to say they found their way through water and the wood to a lovely old apple orchard, and thence to what first seemed to be a very overgrown garden of sorts, but, Susan realised, was in fact the courtyard of an old, ruined castle. I'm not certain that other children would have hit on this as quickly as Susan, Peter, Edmund and Lucy did, but then, other children have not been Kings and Queens before. Indeed, the tumbledown area was in many ways very like their own dear Cair Paravel might be if it fell into ruin. It was a sad sort of place, all overgrown and fallen to something much less than it had once been; if you have ever seen a ruin, you will know what I mean. All of the children were greatly affected by it as they explored, though in rather different ways.

Peter, the eldest, found it was a solemn thing and behaved accordingly as they investigated. As soon as Susan realised what it was they had found, Peter understood why he felt so grave. This had once been a home to people –whether they had been good people or bad it was impossible to tell, but hardly seemed relevant at the moment– in much the same way that Cair Paravel in Narnia had once been home to them. The people who had lived here were clearly long gone, and it gave everything an air of deep melancholy to think of what it once might have been. From that point forward Peter acted as young men generally do when they know they must put a brave face on, and the best thing about Peter is that he didn't behave that way for appearances' sake, but rather because he really did feel most solemn about it all.

Edmund, third-eldest, didn't behave quite as magnificently as Peter, but that's because he wasn't thinking about how he ought to act about it; instead, he was trying to puzzle out what it all meant. It was a strange turn of events, after all, and Edmund felt he ought to make some sense of it if only he thought it over well enough. It wasn't doing him much good as of yet, but it was a way to keep his mind busy as he followed his little sister through a high, arching doorway into a room that, the children realised, must be the old Great Hall, much like the same Great Hall they had once had in their own castle of Cair Paravel.

Lucy, the youngest, was the most intrigued. She wasn't exactly thrilled about the turn of events, but she was the least alarmed, and the least concerned with how to figure it out or how she ought to act. She was in fact most worried about what they were going to eat, and how they were going to keep warm at night, since she was starting to feel both hungry and rather chilled. These problems were happily put to rest when Peter declared that they must build a campfire to keep themselves warm; once they had done this they sat down to eat, whereupon Lucy became worried about only the apples they were eating, and how the one she had just picked up had scorched her fingers. She wished very much that the sea wasn't such a walk away, or else she would have run straight down and dipped her hands in the tide to cool them (she had already washed off the marmalade).

Susan, I think it safe to say, was having the most trouble of all of them. Susan was a nice sort of person, but she was also a very sensible girl, and I am afraid sensible people are not at their best when nonsensical things are going on around them. They will try very hard to find something sensible to fuss over, when really the best thing to do is to be as flexible and adaptable as possible. Sensible people rarely adapt well, and they hardly ever flex, so poor Susan was very nearly miserable as they sat around the fire and made a terribly poor meal, first of baked apples, and then, when that went very badly and Lucy burnt her fingers a second time, of just plain, raw apples. It was all most unsatisfying.

Presently, feeling as if she could hardly bear it any longer, Susan got to her feet and said, rather stiffly, that she was going to get a drink. They had come upon the old castle well during their explorations, and done their best to clear it off. The water had still been good and pure, and as she left the warm little party in the ruin of the Great Hall to make her way into the courtyard, Susan felt rather in need of some of that water right now. The smell of roasting (and burning) apples, the heat of the fire and the general strangeness of everything had been making her feel terribly muddled and a little woozy; she thought a good drink of water and a few deep breaths of night air would be just the thing to clear her head.

Once outside, Susan did not go directly to the well, but rather took it into her head to walk over to the most intact wall there was. It had not crumbled nearly as much as the others; there was even the remainder of a stone stair cut into the side of it, and she could see how it would offer anyone who wished to climb it a clear view of the road below. But then, she thought, that was nonsensical of her; there was no road below. There might once have been –for whoever heard of building a lookout to look out over nothing?– but the road was long gone. She knew it was so just as surely as if she had climbed the stair to see for herself, though of course she did not; the stair looked quite worn out, and Susan, as I have said, was a terribly sensible girl. Sensible people don't climb worn-out stairs.

Instead, Susan stood at the foot of the stair for just a moment, and took one, two, three deep breaths of the air. The salt scent of the sea filled her lungs, and Susan, who loved the water dearly, felt so suddenly, powerfully homesick that she fairly rushed back to the castle well, as if by recalling her original purpose and taking a drink of water she might forget everything that she had been about to remember.

The original bucket was of course long gone, but they had fashioned a sort of dipper from scraps of things they had found about the place (and very unsanitary it was, too, but when you are very thirsty you think less of things like that) and it was this dipper that she used now. The water was as fresh as anybody could have wished, and it did go a long way toward clearing her head. Unfortunately the dipper wasn't up to a second go; as Susan drew more water to drink, she barely managed to get the dipper over the side before a piece broke off, and the cup –consisting of a conch shell they had picked up on the beach– went tumbling into the piles of leaves and overgrown grass at the base of the well head.

With a small cry of annoyance, Susan bent down to retrieve it –she knew she'd never be able to get the thing put back together without help from Edmund. It was he who was a wizard when it came to tying things together with what Lucy called "bits of next to nothing"– and her hand had just closed over the shell when the clouds overhead parted just a bit, and something in the leaves flashed in the muted, silvery glow of the moon.

Surprised, Susan left off the conch shell and instead scrabbled through the leaves, pursuing that faint gleam and coming up with a small, heavy object that shone with the dull glow of really good, solid metal. Brushing at it and holding it up to the light, Susan saw what it was, and her breath caught in her chest.

"_Oh, no, it's too much, it really is; Master Tumnus, we could never accept . . ."_

"_No, no, really, now," the dear fellow looked embarrassed and pleased and terribly awkward at his gift having caused such a fuss. "A King's only crowned once, you know –and a Queen, too, naturally– so I thought I had better do the thing right. You will accept it, won't you? It– it belonged to my father. I can't imagine it could be in any worthier hands."_

_And Susan, who had seen better than the others what it would have done to their dear friend to have the exquisite offering refused, had stepped forward with a radiant smile and gracious thanks, accepting the beautiful chessboard and the stunning set of gold and silver chessmen._

"_We will treasure it always," she promised, and the Faun had gone so thoroughly red all over that she had seen it would be the kindest thing all round to simply change the subject, and had._

Now Susan looked at the little knight gleaming in the moonlight, the horse's jewelled eye winking up at her. She had held this piece before. There was nothing in her heart or head that told her it could be otherwise. She had held this piece before.

"_Your game, Majesty, as always! And a worthier opponent I could not ask for." Giants are awkward at the best of times, but when they are trying to be gallant they are positively ridiculous; yet Susan had never been tempted to laugh as she had smiled up at dear old Rumblebuffin, and thanked him for a game well-played._

"_And will your Majesty not allow me the loser's honour of escorting his better to the water party? It's thinking I am that they've begun without us."_

_So Susan had very gravely stretched her hand up as very high as it could go, and Rumblebuffin had bent his great height to let the Queen's tiny hand rest in the palm of his own, and together they had descended to the edge of the sea, where the mer-people had risen up in song; so it always was, when the court had a water party to welcome in the spring._

Susan, now clutching the little chessman tightly in her fist, stood stock-still in the courtyard –a courtyard so terribly, frighteningly like a sad, shadowy echo of that in which she had once played that very game– and felt her heart thudding dreadfully. The memories –the awful, dear, terrible, wonderful memories she had tried so hard to forget this past year– were all rushing in upon her, crowding thick and fast.

_Long, lovely Narnian summers, and the picnics they'd had: merry, messy celebrations that had been every bit as fun as the most formal banquets; the mad parties on the Dancing Lawn at the height of the Summer Festival, and the wildest gambols of Satyrs and Fauns as they piped and danced until the grass fell flat and bruised beneath their dainty cloven hoofs, every other creature having long since collapsed with delicious exhaustion._

_Crisp, colourful Narnian autumns, filled with hunts and feasts, the harvest songs, the storing ceremony as the Royal Storerooms were filled with the fall harvest and shut tight against the snows that would soon follow. The crisp bite to the air was exhilarating as the trees gilded and burnished their leaves. They had ridden, flushed and laughing, on the wild chases through the woods in pursuit of game to feed the court in the winter months to come. _

_Clear, cold Narnian winters, all crystalline snows and feathery patterns of frost on leaded-glass windows as everyone retreated to the warmth of the fireside. They had bundled up in soft, brocaded coats with fur at neck and cuffs when they dared to venture outside, fur-lined leather slippers crunching the new-fallen snow as they made snowballs and waged merry wars in their own courtyard, all the court joining in. The Christmas feasts had been magnificent, with great logs burning in the fireplaces, the flaming puddings and the gifts, everyone sitting safe in celebration as they felt the joy of knowing their family stretched a whole kingdom over._

_Green, glorious Narnian springs, wet and warm and moist, new creation bursting forth. Tender green shoots had erupted from the damp earth, heralding the joy of brand new baby things blinking, mewling and staggering about, all of life waking up in one glorious, sweet echo of that which they all remembered; the end of the Long Winter, and the start of something great and new. Every year they had seen it, the visible echo of the lionsong in the newborn wonders of Aslan, who had created it all._

Susan remembered the people, too; everyone who had known them as they were then. There had been such good, kind people from their land and others, those who had offered their friendship in good times and bad. There had been enemies, too; people who had laid siege to their homeland, who had fought to take what they loved, only to be driven back in utter defeat in the end by the monarchs appointed to rule . . .

_Peter, the noblest King there could ever be, a fierce fighter and proven Knight, a warrior and a nobleman, a leader any subject would be proud to honour, but always, always a brother first._

_Edmund, bearded and wise, as he had looked when he had been Edmund the Just. She could not have been prouder to be anyone's sister than she had been to be the sister of such a man._

_Lucy, always merry, ever-valiant, laughing as she caught a friend in her arms, weeping as she heard the names of the knights who had fallen in battle, defending their kingdom. Never had there been a dearer sister._

_Susan, tall and stately, her manner as gentle as her face was fair. Men had fought to court her, but she had wanted nothing more than that which she already had, her heart's desire nothing more or less than her family and her home._

She remembered now all the things that had been theirs, and those things that had been hers; the gowns and furs and jewels, certainly, but more than that, the books and the private rooms and the little places that she and Lucy could go if they wanted to be alone. The private talks with Peter, when he asked her opinion on some particularly sticky aspect of running the kingdom. The odd, easy friendship she had shared with Edmund, who irritated her unbearably at times but was always the first to try to understand what the others could not.

She remembered the haughty castle cats, the good, loyal dogs and the lovely horses. She remembered Alambil, dear Alambil, her large, black eyes so gentle and inquisitive, her velvety nose nuzzling Susan's hand and skirt. Susan remembered, as if it had all been but days ago, the way the beautiful mare seemed to float as they coursed through the woods, and the way Susan had felt more matched to that horse than she had to anything else in the world.

She remembered the Lion. Gold, good, and glorious was Aslan.

She remembered the feeling of home.

She hadn't known anything could hurt so much; she realised she was holding the little gold knight so tightly that her knuckles were bleaching bone-white, even in the light of the moon. Her face was wet with tears, and she had just enough presence of mind to fish out her handkerchief and tidy herself as best she could. Then, tucking the hanky back into her sleeve, she clutched the little chessman tighter and fled from the courtyard, back into the Great Hall, back to the fire and the family who waited her there.

"Look," she said, and the clutch in her chest was echoed in her voice, but she did not, would not, could not cry, not even as she held out one shaking hand to her startled brother, giving it to him, wanting him to take it, before she remembered anything else; before the hurt grew too much to bear. "I found it by the well."

Then she sat down and hid her face, because if she looked at it again she knew she would weep. She couldn't help it; she knew, of course, that it was no good wanting what you couldn't have, and naturally sensible people didn't waste time on such things. Yet for some reason it's the sensible people who hurt the most when they are removed from the midst of all the lovely, nonsensical things that they have learned to love so well, and Susan, I am afraid, hurt the worst of the four of them, for she was the most sensible of them all.

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**A.N.:** I don't know exactly where this came from, but it was a nice little break for me to write it. Susan is probably the dearest to me of the four, because she's the character with whom I identify the most, and I always have fun challenging myself to explore the little bits and pieces of her we're given in the books. I can relate to what Lewis does tell us about her, so I take it as a pleasant challenge to try to unravel those parts that he doesn't disclose as readily.

I hope this made for a good read, and I hope it's clear that I in no way, shape or form lay any claim to Narnia or to any of Lewis's characters, except that I love them all very, very much.


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